Alone in the Spotlight
by Schroe Dawson
Summary: ...A poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by idiot, filled sound and fury, signifying nothing. SpRace oneshot.


_Author's Note: This is the first time I've written a one-shot. I was struck by a Sprace muse and I instead spent the morning working on this instead of my chapter fic (in which Racetrack and Spot are not happy with each other at all, nor remotely in love with each other). So, enjoy. Oh, wait I need a **disclaimer.** _

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Spot. I don't own Race. I don't own Newsies. I hate admitting that.

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Sometimes, on the rare occasion that we all have the cash and the desire, me and the fellas go see the flicker shows. I always watch the people in the shows, gesturing and miming silently on the screen, and think that I could be an actor. I always think the same thing when Medda lets us sit backstage at Irving Hall and watch all the action from the wings. An actor performs for his audience and makes everyone believe he's a completely different person than he is in real life. I could be an actor.

I've always been good at getting people to like me. I'm funny. I'm everyone's best friend. I know when to listen to another newsie's problems, I know when to laugh, I know when to bet, when to fold. I know when I can be the center of attention. I used to love being the center of attention. For all anyone knows, I still love being the center of attention. In short, I'm charming. I haven't got the same type of charisma Jack has. He has the whole fearless leader thing going for him. He's respected. I'm just appreciated.

Spot Conlon has that fearless leader persona too. I don't see him all that often anymore. He's busy running Brooklyn. Sometimes he comes to Manhattan. But I avoid him when he comes. I used to accompany Jack to Brooklyn when he needed "ambastards" to go across the bridge. Me and Jack were the only ones from Manhattan who had the guts to hold council in Brooklyn. I don't do that anymore; I stay behind. During the strike, when Jack told us to get the word out to all the newsies of New York, I called Midtown and left immediately, not even looking back. I know the other boys expected me to go to Brooklyn, but I couldn't. So I went to Midtown. I let Boots and Davey go to Brooklyn. They could talk to Spot.

Spot. Spot Conlon. He is the reason my life is an act. It's an award-winning performance. I joke and pretend to be the happiest little newsie in the world. Sometimes I trick myself into believing that I really am Racetrack Higgins, wise-ass extraordinaire and compulsive gambler. I've fallen into that trap for days at a time, temporarily and ignorantly content. Then I remember. I remember that I'm playing a character and when that thought hits me, something in my chest hurts. I miss him. It's my choice to stay in Manhattan. It's my choice to avoid him. Whenever I see him, and for an instant I'm so happy. So happy. Then the pain in my chest redoubles and I wish I'd never laid eyes on him.

We used to be friends, good friends. Better friends than he and Jack ever were. Actually, I think I was the only real friend Spot ever had. But like I said, I'm good at getting people to like me. I'd see him on my way to Sheepshead Races everyday. I'd walk right through Brooklyn to get to the tracks, something a Manhattan kid would never dream of doing. Spot never minded. I think my defiant presence amused him. During my first years as a newsie, I would just pass Spot on the way to Sheepshead. He would give me a nod, and I would smirk. Then he would smirk back. I love his smirk.

He never talked to me until I went with Jack to speak to Spot about a bit of trouble we were having with the child labor reformers. I remember being a little bit scared on my first meeting in Brooklyn, but I relaxed as soon as I saw Spot. He recognized me and I know I won't ever forget what he said.

_"Well if it ain't the almost-Brooklyn newsie. I didn't know he was one a' your boys, Jack, I see this kid walkin' ta Sheepshead all the time."_

The almost-Brooklyn newsie. That's what he called me. He called me that a lot. After we'd been properly acquainted, I saw Spot everyday on my way to the tracks. He would wait and walk with me. That's how we got to be friends. Spot's a difficult person to talk to; distant and cold, you know? But I'm good at getting people to like me, so I did most of the talking. Sometimes he'd tell me to shut up. So I would.

We carried on this routine for three years. Spot even opened up a little after a year or so and then I would have to tell him to shut up. But he wouldn't. The two of us were close, closer than anyone ever knew. Jack never heard this, but me and Spot privately agreed that I was just as much a Brooklyn newsie as a Manhattan newsie. We talked about everything. Almost everything. I never once told him how I felt. We both knew it was there, but we determinedly ignored it. It was sick, it was wrong and no one else would ever understand. Even I didn't understand. Still don't.

Then one day I reached the end of the bridge. Spot wasn't waiting there. I walked to Sheepshead alone. I've walked to Sheepshead alone everyday since then. Everyday for the last two years. Spot and I stopped seeing each other. Our friendship ended suddenly, with no explanation. Okay, that's not completely true. There were times near the end when I could see how uncomfortable Spot felt when we looked at each other. I knew he felt the same as me. He had to end things. It was better that way.

I know what you're thinking. And I'm telling you now, nothing happened. Nothing ever happened between me and Spot, unless you count the quick looks and lingering spit shakes. I wish I could tell you about the one night we shared, the one steaming night when we dropped our charades and reputations. I wish I could tell you every move we made, how the touch of his skin against mine felt, every kiss we shared. It would have been a night burned into my memory forever. On the nights when I feel alone in a city where little children slept three and four to a bed, the days when I hate my performance of jokes and smiles, I could take out that memory and that alone could have gotten me through anything life handed me. You can't make a memory out of something that never happened.

I need that memory right now. I need something hang on to. Even a good actor forgets his lines and breaks character. That's why I'm here. At the distribution office. It's empty now; the morning edition is already out on the streets, and the afternoon edition won't even be printed for another two hours. No one will find me here. I crawl under the steps leading up to Weasel's office and sit, just thinking. Tired of acting for my friends, tired of hiding my secret. No one can see me, so I cry.

I haven't seen Spot for a year, not since the strike. During the strike, we pretended to be buddies for the benefit of the other newsies, but every time I looked at him, it tore my heart apart. I love him. I've never admitted that to myself before today. I love him, and I want him, but it isn't going to happen. He'll find a girl; I'll find a girl. We'll settle down in our separate lives. I'm furious with myself as tears slide down my face. I don't want to feel this way. I don't want to be the actor that my life has forced to be. Spot isn't worth any of this. I hope he burns in hell.

I hear someone calling my name. There are footsteps above my head and someone hears me under the stairs. A dark, curly haired head pokes itself into my hiding place. It's Mush. He looks startled to find me like this. "Racetrack?" He asks anxiously.

"Yeah?" My voice doesn't sound like my voice. It sounds small and shaky. He can see my tears, so I hastily wipe them away and crawl out from the under the stairs.

"You okay, Race?"

"I'm fine." I say, not looking at him. My voice is back to normal. I'm glad. Poor Mush isn't sure what to do with himself. I help him out by breaking character again, "Don't tell anyone." I tell him harshly. Mush nods. He looks scared. He won't tell anyone.

"The others is at Tibby's." Mush says awkwardly, not meeting my eyes.

"Let's go." I nod. We walk in silence to Tibby's. I take a deep breath before entering the restaurant. When I go inside Tibby's and meet my friends, I will once again be an actor on a stage, ready to entertain. And I will be standing alone in the spotlight.


End file.
